


Pleiades

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Big Eden (2000)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-20
Updated: 2007-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:28:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1629095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can't pick your family, but sometimes, your family picks you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pleiades

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Daemonluna, Xmas_holly, and Tzikeh for support and betaing.
> 
> Written for twistedchick

 

 

_Jim Soams_

Pike opened his eyes in the dark, the heavy quilts crumpled under his chin, and listened. The gunshot crack of ice breaking came from the lakeshore, and a porcupine was gnashing its teeth against the old pine snag out front. It was near enough to sunrise that the whiskeyjacks were up, squabbling over scraps and perches. Pike didn't so much as move, his muscles tensing until even his breath was snared in his throat. He'd been listening to mornings on the lake all his life, and none of those winter noises had ever tugged him out of sleep before. There was nothing different about the old chinked ceiling or the room's shadows, and that felt wrong.

A dark slumped shape sat at his desk chair, and after a minute Pike made out that it was Mr. Soams. It was his breathing that had woken Pike, the sound rasping tired and heavy in his throat. The whole room was an echo of what it should be, like he was still sleeping. Pike knew, so deep down that his chest hurt with it, that he didn't want to hear the reason Mr. Soams was in his room, watching him. He felt like a muley, lying stock still in its day bed, hoping the hunter would just walk on past.

"Pike," Mr. Soams said. "I need you to wake up, son."

Pike stretched out his legs, feeling the crisp coldness of the sheets beyond the nest he'd made with his body warmth. It had snowed last night, and the strip of muted light inching around the window blinds was a fine clear grey. When the sun got up over the mountains, outlining the lake and forest with a brilliant orange-red, it would set the frost and the fresh powder glinting, edged by purple-blue shadows under the evergreens. Pike squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on that, on the exact moment when morning swept the dark away and the ice turned glacier-blue all through the valley.

He swallowed and forced himself to speak. "Mr. Soams?"

Mr. Soams let out a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry, Pike. It's your parents."

Pike sat up, so quickly that the cold air rushed under his covers, freezing the sweat on his body. "What happened?"

"They've been in an accident," Mr. Soams said. "When they were on their way home last night." He paused, and rested his big, blunt hand on the bed, aiming a clumsy pat at Pike's knee. As the light came up, Pike could see his face. The pouches under his eyes were stained dark, and his frown lines were drawn and deep. The colourless light made his ash-fair hair seem gray, even more than at the temples, and it was mussed from the knit hat he'd pulled off and was squeezing in one hand. "It's pretty bad, Pike. I came to bring you to the hospital."

Pike nodded and got out of bed. He pulled on yesterday's jeans over the long underwear he'd slept in and shivered into a t-shirt and a wool sweater. Mr. Soams followed him to the door and waited while he stamped into his boots and grabbed his down jacket. Mr. Soams' truck was outside, frost already blooming over the windows. The diesel starter kicked over into an ugly coughing, exhaust puffing up around them. Mr. Soams gave him a long look while the defroster cleared the windshield. "I'm awful sorry about this, Pike, I truly am," he said.

Pike leaned against the side door, crossing his arms to bury his fingers in his armpits. He felt sick to his stomach, but his whole body was so far away that it didn't seem to matter. He stared out the window, the cold glass numbing his forehead. The snow squeaked under the tires when Mr. Soams backed out, leaving two sets of slush-brown tracks leading in from the highway.

The roads were slick, even after the plows and sand trucks grumbled their way over the passes. Big Eden had been hosting stranded city folk, offering cocoa and sympathy on one side and selling tire chains and emergency kits on the other, while Lloyd Twogood hauled their cars out of the banks and ditches and towed them into town. Seemed they couldn't get through a season without cars flipping over guardrails, skidding into head-ons over black ice, skiers ignoring avalanche warnings, climbers falling into crevices. Sometimes helicopters could haul them free, the stiff corpses harnessed to the rescuers as they were airlifted out. Sometimes they just ended up as names listed as missing.

The glide of the road going by outside was fogged by his breath, and Pike wiped it clear with a sleeve. The blasting fans and the whine of the block heater covered his breathing and Mr. Soams' sighs when he glanced over at him. At least he didn't have to talk. Mr. Soams frowned at the road, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. He took the eighteen miles into town faster than was safe, driving close to the limit and then easing off the gas when he checked the speedometer. They almost spun out at the four-way stop, but Mr. Soams made the turn and they reached the hospital as the sun was coming up. The metallic scent of last night's snowfall was already gone. The day was going to be freezing and clear, the sky an impossible pale blue.

Pike shook his head tightly when Mr. Soams offered to let him off at the entrance. He held his breath when the truck was parked, but Mr. Soams was waiting. He clicked open his seatbelt and slid out into the cold, stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets and walking hunch-shouldered to the hospital doors. The fluorescent lights glared down on him the minute he stepped in, so bright that they blurred everything. Pike blinked hard, biting down on his tongue so that he couldn't let a sound escape.

Mrs. Cornwell and Mrs. Thayer were already in the lobby, waiting. They stood up when they saw him, both of them looking around to find a place to put their small styrofoam coffee cups. Mrs. Thayer looked like she wanted to run up and smother him, but Mrs. Cornwell put a hand on her arm and stopped her. Pike wanted to sidle right back out the door, but Mr. Soams was behind him, and it wouldn't change anything, anyway. He eased over to the hard plastic chairs and sat down, flinching a bit when Mrs. Cornwell sat beside him. Her hand clutched his, tight, between the seats where no one would see. Her fingers were warmer than his, and Pike realized he was shivering, even though he didn't feel cold.

"Has there been any news?" Mr. Soams asked. Mrs. Cornwell shook her head.

"The doctors said they had high hopes," Mrs. Thayer said, in her wobbly, quavering voice. She flicked her eyes at Pike and back at Mr. Soams. "We're all praying."

Mr. Soams sighed and sat down across from Pike, drooping like he didn't have any strength left. "Grace, you wouldn't mind maybe getting us some of that coffee? I know Pike's going to need some breakfast soon, too."

"Of course," Mrs. Cornwell said. "You boys just wait here." She pulled Mrs. Thayer with her down the hall, both of them whispering.

"It wasn't your parents' fault, Pike," Mr. Soams said. "Sheriff says they were on the bridge over the railway when the other car came around the corner at them, in their lane. He must have not seen the line, the snow was coming down so hard, and he might have been fishtailing already."

Pike nodded, staring at his boots. He hadn't remembered to tie them. His mother would get after him that he'd be tripping all over the place and hurting himself. His fingers felt too stiff to make knots, so he clenched his fists in his lap and tried to push down the whirling feeling in his stomach. He darted looks at Mr. Soams, at the clock on the wall above the nurse's desk, down the hallway where Mrs. Thayer and Mrs. Cornwell had disappeared. All his thoughts were flitting through his head too fast to hold on to. His mother telling him they'd be going out for the evening. His father promising to take him down to the ice-fishing shack on the weekend. Wondering what had happened to the man driving the other car.

He didn't know how long they waited. He must have been sitting in the chairs for most of the day, long enough to get stiff, for the muffin Mrs. Cornwell brought him to go stale, untouched, in front of him. There hadn't been much talk. Mrs. Thayer kept starting in on some way it was all going to work out, saying, "Maybe," and "If only," and "Well, of course..." Either Mr. Soams or Mrs. Cornwell would hush her up right away, and Pike managed to relax a little each time they did. But his back kept knotting up and he stared so hard at the floor that his eyes got hot and damp, and he had to blink again to clear them. He was the first one to jump to his feet when the doctor came through the big double doors they'd all been watching.

"Mr. Dexter," the doctor said. One look at his face was all Pike needed to see everything he needed to know. Mr. Soams did the listening, the nodding, and he said at last, "We sure do appreciate it," and shook the doctor's hand.

Pike didn't know how he came to be sitting down again, and this time he couldn't do so much as shrug off Mrs. Cornwell's arm around his back. "Oh, Pike love," she said, softly enough that maybe she didn't even mean for him to hear. She squeezed his shoulder and Pike realized he hadn't even taken off his jacket. He'd sweated through his undershirt, like any dumb idiot who wanted to freeze the minute he stepped back outside. God, he didn't even have the smarts his father had taught him. Mrs. Thayer was standing above him and even Mr. Soams looked like he might try to hug him. Pike suddenly felt boiling angry at all this _hovering_. "Can't you just leave me alone?" he burst out, and it was even worse when all three of them exchanged looks over his head as if he wasn't right there.

"Of course," Mrs. Cornwell said. "Jim, you'll get him home all right?"

Mr. Soams nodded. "I'm going to stay with you a bit, Pike," he said. "I don't want to bother you any, but you know you need someone around."

Pike shook them all off and stalked away, trying hard not to listen to Mr. Soams reassuring Mrs. Thayer that he could cook just fine if he needed to, and he could work a phone, too, if either of them needed anything.

Pike knew he was crying from the way the wind outside burned against his cheeks, and his fingers were numb again in seconds. Like an idiot, he'd left his jacket flapping open. He'd never learn. That was how half those ice-climbers and skiers died, just not enough sense to know when conditions were dangerous, when they shouldn't even be goddamn outside when they could be safe at home.

When he got to the truck he leaned back against it, waiting for Mr. Soams to come and unlock the doors. When he did, he looked like he was going to speak, but Pike stared straight through him, away from the hospital, out at the lake and the mountains beyond, all of it in stark whites and blacks. Even the sky had paled out, like eggshell. Above the treeline there'd be easy whiteout conditions.

"All right now," Mr. Soams said. "Let's get you back home."

There wasn't anything left to do except climb into the truck. Mr. Soams didn't turn the key straight away, but draped one arm over the steering wheel and turned so he was facing him across the distance of the cab.

"Now I want you to know, Pike," he said, "that you're going to be taken care of."

Pike didn't answer. The frost made new patters on the windshield, outlining the usual arc of the wiper blades in delicate lines and whorls. Finally, Mr. Soams started the engine, and got outside to scrape. Pike listened to the crunch and hiss of the scraper moving back and forth, the whirr of the defroster, the engine ticking over and starting to rumble as it warmed. Pike had never been so cold in his life and he couldn't feel it at all.

Mr. Soams climbed back into the cab and pulled out without another word. Pike closed his eyes. The heat seemed to expand to fill the truck, sinking through his layers to his skin.

"You're only just seventeen," Mr. Soams said, just when Pike figured the ride back would be as silent as when they'd come. There was another pause, but it didn't seem like he was waiting for Pike to answer. When Mr. Soams went on, it was like he was trying to paint a picture for himself, even more than for Pike. "You'll have the store. It's yours, and it always will be, but I'm going to keep on there while you're in school, if that's what you want," he said. The words floated over Pike's head, but Mr. Soams had a way of talking, soft and drawling deep and just never stopping. He'd never been one to worry if Pike didn't hold up his end of a conversation. He talked about the cabin, how they'd sell it if Pike wanted, but he should keep the land; how they could at least count on there always being tourists, so the store would never go under; how Pike had other family he could call anytime if he wanted, and if he chose to move in with them then that's what would happen. Anything he was worried about, they'd find a way to work it out.

By the time they pulled in to the drive, Pike was half-asleep, letting himself drift in the warmth and Mr. Soams' voice. He didn't want to wake up, not for anything, but Mr. Soams gripped his shoulder and he made himself open his eyes. The cabin would be cold when they got in. No one had turned up the furnace this morning or lit the fireplace. There'd be no one to do that except him.

"I'm going to be there with you, Pike," Mr. Soams said, as if he was reading his mind. "It's not the same, I know, and it's sure as hell not going to be easy. But you've got us, son. You've got Big Eden."

* * *

_Hank Fulbright_

"Hey, Pike, how's that schoolwork coming?"

Pike hunched closer over his notebook and shrugged. He had stretched out his legs and was leaning on the counter, his elbows propped next to the register. Mr. Soams gave him a nod and walked on back to the couches near the wood stove, where Mr. Twogood was trying to tamp fresh tobacco into his pipe and still keep his forefinger on his place in the hefty book he was reading.

"I hear Fulbright's got that old ice shack of his towed out on the lake," Mr. Soams said, as he settled on the couch and snapped open a paper.

"Yep, helped him haul it out yesterday. There's eight inches of good ice."

Mr. Soams gave a harrumphing noise and lifted the paper. Mr. Twogood struck a match and started lighting his pipe, sucking at the stem, his large glasses looking to fall off the end of his nose and into his book at any moment. Mr. Soams shuffled and coughed behind his paper, rattling the newsprint every time he turned a page.

When Mr. Twogood had his pipe going to his satisfaction, puffs of tobacco smoke rising up around his head, he started in again. "There's been a good run of perch this year."

"Sturgeon too," Mr. Soams agreed.

They were both quiet for a minute, nodding along to the crackle of the fire and the pop of pine pitch from the stove. When Pike raised his head, he caught Mr. Soams watching him with a worried look, the squint-lines around his eyes just a bit deeper than usual. Pike stared back, and Mr. Soams ducked behind the sports section.

"Fulbright could probably use a hand out there," Mr. Twogood went on, tugging at his mustache. "There's gutting to do, and shovelling."

Mr. Soams grunted, and Mr. Twogood started working on his pipe again with a fresh match. Pike snapped his notebook shut and walked over to the lending library, picking out his dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice, and walked into the back, closing the door to the little apartment behind him. He kept reading right on through closing time, when Mr. Soams knocked on the connecting door to say he was locking up.

Pike unfolded himself from his kitchen chair and closed his book. He stretched as he stepped out on the back porch. The nights were beginning to shorten, but from October through March, by the time the store closed it was dark. Mr. Soams had turned off the sign out front and the floodlights around the gas pumps, and the trees blocked out most other light, leaving the rising curve of the galaxy to shimmer on the crusty snow. Snaking lines of pale green and milky white pulsed overhead, wavering and dancing, so thick that they blurred the constellations.

Pike breathed in, the sharp cold prickling at the back of his nose. The wind was already cutting through his shirt. He hadn't been ice fishing in a year. He'd never gone without his father. Mr. Soams would never say so, but he thought Pike should get back to doing the things he loved.

Pike crouched down and picked up a handful of hard, icy snow, squeezing it in his fist until it cut into his palm, his fingers wet and chilled white, meltwater leaking down his wrist. He'd always loved going off on his own, walking through the woods in the perfect quiet after a snowfall, or hiding away with a book. Now it seemed like that was all he had. Pike dropped the snowball at his feet and sat back on his heels, watching the northern lights. He didn't need anyone asking after him every second of the day. And Mr. Soams didn't press. But there had to be more than just going back and forth to school and taking his turn at the register.

Shivering, Pike turned back to the door, flicking on the kitchen lights. The world outside disappeared, leaving blackness at the window. From the lake, the lighted kitchen windows were bright enough to be a beacon, and his shadow inside would stretch down the hill, visible right to the shore if there was someone standing on one particular boulder where the trees didn't block the path. Pike used to stand there when he was a kid, and turn from the deepening purple over the lake up to the store, to see his mother in the kitchen while his father locked up and closed down. They'd all head back to the cabin together in the evenings, him cuddled in the middle seat of the pick-up, one knee next to his father's hand on the gearshift and his head resting on his mother's shoulder, watching the restless snow whirl in the high beams.

It was good he hadn't kept the cabin. The apartment in the back of the store was plenty big enough, and it hurt enough remembering his parents there, without throwing the memories from their house in as well. It was best of all, whenever he started thinking, to stop, and take a breath, and close the door on the memories as best he could.

He woke up early the next morning, as he usually did now. There was a squirrel chattering out somewhere, and a magpie squawking. Pike got out of bed without thinking about it, and pulled on his winter gear, long underwear, wool pants, fur-lined mitts, and a goretex shell. The path down to the lake was so familiar under his feet that he didn't bother with a flashlight. Even this early there was some reflection on the snow. He knew Mr. Fulbright's usual place to set up for fishing, even if Mr. Soams hadn't said it.

The lake was steel blue, lit by the occasional waver of yellow light from lakeside cabin windows through the trees. Ice snapped under his boots as Pike walked out from the chipped ice near shore to the uneven flood ice out near the shack. Light gleamed through the cracks around the entrance.

Inside, the kerosene lamp hissed and sputtered, the fuel turned just high enough that the white light caught in the corners of the shack. Mr. Fulbright sat next to the small kerosene tank, on a bench padded with spruce boughs and an old stained blanket. He looked up and nodded at Pike, then went back to the decoy he was carving. Curls of wood shavings littered the ice in front of him, about a foot from the round dark eye of the fishing hole. It looked wide enough that there wouldn't be much work with the auger this morning to open it out. Pike watched Mr. Fulbright's hands, which looked so clumsy inside his gloves. Still, they curved around a small knife, smoothing out the shape of a trout from a chunk of wood. The arc of the tail would keep the decoy in swimming position, and its weight had to be judged to make sure it would float. Several more decoys, finished and painted, were tied to the jigging sticks propped in the corner, along with two short, tined spears.

Mr. Fulbright nodded at the empty space on the bench. Pike sat down, compensating for the slide. Mr. Fulbright sniffed deeply and reached for his handkerchief. When he'd tucked it away again, and there'd been no sound between them except the rasp of the knife blade on wood for a quarter of an hour, Mr. Fulbright started, "Your father and I fished this lake for many years together."

Pike flicked a glance at Mr. Fulbright's face, the colour of rough sandstone, but he only watched the decoy taking shape in his hands. "And we told stories to pass the time," he continued, taking off a glove and testing the woodgrain with his thumb. Satisfied, he finally looked at Pike. "Have you heard the story of the Oot-kwa-tah, the dancing stars?"

"Yes," Pike said, then he shut his mouth tight. He'd been hearing all his parents' legends since he was born. He didn't want to hear them again from Mr. Fulbright. Maybe coming down here had been a bad idea.

"Good," Mr. Fulbright said. "Then you can be the one to tell it, while I set the decoys."

Pike crossed his arms and frowned. He could just get up to go. But Mr. Fulbright was already dipping the decoys into the green-dark water, twitching the jigging sticks and reaching for a fishing spear, using his body to block the light from reaching the water.

Pike licked his lips, staring into the kerosene lamp until he felt half blind, and then he closed his eyes. "The Onondaga were a great nation," he began.

* * *

_Grumpy Wheeler_

The store was nearly empty when Pike trudged in the door, his boots coated with sticky snow. Mr. Soams hummed softly and off-tune as he moved the mop around the large brown puddle near the door, the one that usually lasted from March to May. Sitting on the couch, Mr. Wheeler was working with bunches of dried flowers, using glue and twine to arrange them in centerpieces.

Mr. Soams leaned both hands on his mop, shaking his head as Pike went to the library shelf. "Grumpy, you ever seen a boy who wanted to stay in reading this much?"

Mr. Wheeler looked up from his baskets and materials. "Nope, I never have," he said. "He's spent most of the winter cooped up."

"He's been fishing with Fulbright," Mr. Soams said. "But I'd like to see him out with his friends."

Pike slammed the book he'd chosen back on to the shelf. "What friends?" he said, turning on them. He didn't have _friends_. There weren't many people at school who even wanted to talk to him.

Mr. Soams raised his eyebrows. "Well, I don't know, Pike. Any of them that you'd let in, I guess."

Pike glared, but Mr. Soams just shrugged and went back to moving the sloppy mess of slush around the floor with the mop.

"Fine," Pike said, and walked straight back out.

He didn't know where he was going. It wasn't enough for any of them that he was keeping up in school, that he was tending the store as much he could. So he didn't have friends. That hadn't changed since last winter, except Mr. Soams and the others now thought it was their place to worry. Pike kicked through the thin plate ice that covered the ruts in the tracks, shattering it under his heels. His feet carried him down to the lake without thinking, taking the track along the shore towards the town.

Ice fishing was mostly over for the season. The ice was thin and rotten out where the currents ran, but near shore there was still enough of a surface on the skating rink for the guys from school to put together a game of shinny. Usually Pike walked on by when he heard them, except this time, Henry Hart was sitting on the lumped up drift of snow that was left at the end of winter from boys shovelling the ice clear for five months.

Pike frowned and trudged closer, his feet sinking up to the ankle on each step, walking up behind Henry. The tips of his ears and his cheeks were bright red, and his nose looked raw from the way he'd sniff every few minutes and then wipe it on the back of his sleeve. The skates on his feet looked stiff and new, and he hadn't even tried to get the laces tightened properly. He was only wearing one mitt, the left. He held a pencil in his right hand, and he was switching between making a few strokes across the sketchpad propped on his knee, and tucking his hand inside his parka, into his left armpit, to warm it.

Pike drifted closer, wondering what Henry was drawing. The two of them were usually in the least trouble with their teachers, because Henry had his sketchpad and Pike had his books. He stretched a bit to get a better look, but his shadow fell across the page.

Henry blinked up at him, and Pike realized he hadn't heard him coming. "Hey."

Pike backed up a few steps. "I was just, uh, going--"

"You can look if you want," Henry said, waving at the patch of snowbank beside him.

Pike looked back over his shoulder, and shifted uncomfortably before sitting down. Henry sat two seats ahead and one row to the left of him in math class, and he spent most of it drawing under his desk. Pike loved watching his hands, and the pale back of his neck, and the flop of the one bang that fell in front of his eyes. He never had to worry about getting caught, because Henry was always staring at Dean Stewart, his eyes unfocused and dreamy.

They both looked up at the clatter of sticks on center ice. Dean skated up to the pile and started tossing sticks left and right, until the teams were picked. Henry grinned as he watched him, sitting back from his sketching and rolling his shoulders. Pike leaned his arms on his knees.

"Are you going to play?" Henry asked.

Pike shook his head quickly. "I--I don't have my skates." Or any skates. He could skate, but he'd outgrown his last pair, and it hadn't been worth it to replace them.

"They'd wait for you, if you wanted to go get them."

"No," Pike said quickly, and clamped his teeth together for sounding like an idiot. "I have to go back anyway," he added.

"Oh, yeah, you work after school, don't you?" Henry said. "My grandpa gets all our groceries from your store."

Pike nodded. Mr. Hart came in every few days, sitting with the group that had started growing on the couches, or, in the clearer light and as the melt started, outside on the benches along the front wall of the store.

Out on the ice, Dean was in the middle of a shoving match, laughing and yelling insults along with the three or four others who had fistfuls of each other's jerseys. Henry's smile was warm, his eyes gleaming as he watched. Pike wished a hole would melt in the ice directly under him so that he could disappear.

"Hey, Henry!" Dean bellowed. "We need you out here! Get those skates on!"

"Nah, it's okay," Henry called back. "I'm talking with Pike."

"You're killing me, Henry!"

"That's just the hypothermia talking!" Henry rolled his eyes at Pike. "He knows I'd get killed out there."

Pike nodded. The pick-up game looked mostly like a wrestling match, though every once in a while Dean would skate free of the pack to take a shot on the old barrel that served as a goal. Pike would rather watch Henry. A couple of weeks ago, he'd dared himself to sit at the same table as him in the library. Henry had looked up and smiled, and then went back to his pencils--he had a whole set, most of them stubby from being sharpened so often. Pike opened his mouth to say something, and then slithered behind his book before he could get the words out. But the story caught his attention, the way it usually did, and by the time he looked up again, Henry was gone.

This time, Pike kept stealing glances to make sure he stayed. Henry's eyes followed Dean on the ice, and every once in a while he'd add another bit of shading to the drawing that was expanding under his hands. Pike sighed. He didn't really need to look to know what it was a picture of.

All of a sudden, Henry asked, "Did you ever think that maybe there was something inside a person that you couldn't really draw unless they didn't know you were looking?"

"Like their spirit?" Pike asked, and bit his lip. God, he should really learn to just not talk at all.

"Yeah," Henry said, his eyes lighting up. "Yes, exactly." He smiled sideways at Pike, hesitated, then said, "Can I show you something?"

Pike froze, but Henry apparently took that as a yes, because he flipped back a few pages in his book, and handed it to him. The picture at the center of the page was Dean, smirking off into the distance, his elbows on his knees. Henry pointed to a sketch squeezed off in the corner of the page. It wasn't much more than a few lines, but it was clearly Pike, frowning intently at the book on his knees, his cheek resting against his fist. Pike's heart started slamming faster, and he felt like he couldn't breathe. "That's--" he started, and he had to clear his throat before he could finish. "You're. It's good."

"Thanks." Henry smiled softly, brushing back his bangs. "Usually you notice me looking. But that one, you were, uh, distracted. You don't mind, do you?"

Pike shrugged, and found he was clutching the edges of the sketchpad hard enough to curl the heavy, textured paper. He thumbed through a few of the pages before he realized Henry might not want him to. He dropped the book quickly, almost into Henry's lap.

Henry didn't seem to notice. "Which is why it's easier, a lot of the time... I mean, Dean doesn't know I'm looking." Henry glanced up at Pike out of the corner of his eye, blushing even brighter than the windburn on his cheeks. "You...that doesn't bother you, does it?"

Pike scrambled to his feet. "No. I, uh. I have to go."

Henry sighed and dipped his head over the sketches, flipping the book closed. "You have to go," he said. "Right."

Pike wanted to tell him it wasn't that, but the words stuck in his throat. It was easier to back away, his feet escaping before he knew what he was doing. He headed home, banging into the store louder than he'd meant to. Mr. Wheeler looked up from his flower arrangements.

Pike dropped into the chair across from him. He felt restless. Henry had drawn a sketch of him. He wanted to know what that meant, why he still couldn't breathe thinking about it.

"You all right, Pike?" Mr. Wheeler asked calmly, his hands still busy and his eyes on his work.

Henry must have had a reason. There were birds and animals and old snaggy trees in his sketchpad, and Dean--lying on his back, his front, laughing, frowning. That much, Pike had seen. But why him? "Why do you do that?" Pike blurted out. "Make all those...?"

"Centerpieces?" Mr. Wheeler asked. "It's good to have something to do with my hands. Keeps me from getting into trouble, the missus says." He sat back, considering. "And then, Pike, it's beautiful. I can't think of a better reason than that."

"Yeah," Pike said, feeling his face heat with a blush that he hoped Mr. Wheeler couldn't see. "Uh, thanks." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the apartment, and then followed after, hoping Mr. Soams wouldn't come back and ask him where he'd gone, and who he'd seen.

* * *

_Lloyd Twogood_

June felt warmest on the front steps of the high school just after Pike's last class. The cement steps were rough and cool, and damp in patches if it had rained that morning. The sun was hot as a wood stove through Pike's t-shirt, except this burning warmth was even more welcome. Pike dropped his head forward and rolled his shoulders, unknotting the muscles of his back. He leaned his head against the railing, the cast-iron radiating heat into his bicep and temple. He had nowhere to go, and he was supposed to be using his spare period for studying, but he didn't care. The air smelled damp and fresh, and the wind curled the dust of the courtyard into a whirl of candy wrappers and cigarette butts. Out past the gravel shoulders of the road, the bank rose sharply under scrub pines and juniper with bright green tips on every branch. The nearby mountains, growing up out of the talus slopes and the cols around the lake, had snow on their peaks and running in deep, sheltered grooves down their sides, and the sky was gray-blue with haze.

When the doors clanged open and more guys came out, leaning back against the brick wall of the school to smoke without getting seen, Pike gathered his books and moved on. The field was starting to show green through the prickly yellow-brown grass from last fall. Pike kicked a rock along, heading for the road where the school bus was parked.

Mr. Twogood had the bus's hood hauled forward on its hinges, exposing the dusty grease-black of the engine. A scatter of wrenches decorated the ground in front of the bus. Pike sighed and walked up to the half-open door. Mr. Twogood was asleep in the driver's seat, his long legs propped up on the dash, his glasses slipping down his nose and his battered cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes. His arms were crossed protectively over the book open on his chest, and his pipe hung loosely from his mouth. He started awake when Pike stepped on, and ran a hand down his chin.

"Afternoon, Pike," he said, leaning forward to grab his bookmark, resting beside the softly hissing radio. "How was school?"

"Okay," Pike said, and started for his usual seat.

"Maybe you can give me a hand." Mr. Twogood slung his legs down and pushed the door handle until it locked open. "I was just tinkering. Come on, you can help me get her ready."

Pike ditched his books and followed him off the bus. Mr. Twogood stood on the far side of the engine, his forearms resting on the edge of the hood, his pipe tucked into the front pocket of his plaid shirt. "Not much to it," he said. "Pass me the combination wrench."

Pike leaned against the bus, just over the front tire, and scratched the back of his calf with the other boot. Mr. Twogood tightened up the bolts he could reach, then passed the wrench to Pike to work on his side of the engine block.

"Good work," Mr. Twogood said. "You ever think about becoming a mechanic?"

Pike shook his head. The store brought in good enough money that he didn't need to worry too much about what he was going to do after next year. He didn't even need his high school diploma, really, to run a store in a place as small as Big Eden.

"You have the hands for it," Mr. Twogood said, starting to put away his tools. "I bet your hands could learn anything, if you put your mind to it."

Maybe Pike had the tools figured out since he'd seen Mr. Twogood playing with the bus engine almost every day, whenever Mr. Twogood figured he could get away with tinkering without stranding them all at school. He'd already invited Pike to help him rebuild an old snowmobile from the treads up over the summer. Pike picked up the last wrench and handed it over to Mr. Twogood, who snapped the latches on the toolbox shut and carried it aboard the bus to stow under his seat. The last bell of the day was just ringing, and soon everybody was streaming out the doors. Pike climbed the bus steps and sat in his seat near the middle, propping his knees up and turning to look out the window.

A minute later, Henry swung into the seat next to him. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, and he lifted his eyebrows, pretending that he didn't know Pike was looking at him. Pike forced himself not to squirm. There was no way he could get out of the seat without brushing past Henry or having to tell him why he wanted to move. This was supposed to be his seat, since his stop was the furthest out from the town, and there weren't so many kids that anyone had to double up. Henry and Dean usually sat in the last row of seats, leaning back against the sides of the bus, their legs up on the seats and their feet meeting in the aisle.

"You're not even going to say hi, are you?"

Pike glanced over quickly. Henry was still looking ahead, fighting off a smirk. "Hi," Pike said, the word nearly lost as the bus roared to life and bumped away from the curb.

Henry grinned. "Hi, yourself."

Pike cleared his throat, trying to think of something to say. "Where's Dean?" he asked.

"Oh, he had to stay late for training," Henry said. "Dean's going to be captain of the football team next year. He might even get an athletic scholarship."

That didn't seem to make Henry as happy as he was pretending. "Only one more year," he said, and then sighed.

Pike blinked. "One more year of what?"

"Of...living here," Henry said, laughing a bit. "Of hanging around in Big Eden."

"You're leaving?" Pike asked, and wanted to kick himself. Of course he was leaving. That was what he'd just said.

"Yeah, I'm going to art school," Henry said. "In New York, I hope."

The way he said _New York_ lit up his face almost as much as the way he said _Dean_. Pike hunched lower in his seat.

"Yeah," Henry said, mirroring the motion, so that their thighs and shoulders were pressed together and Henry was breathing softly almost right in his ear. Pike bit his lip and pulled his shoulders in, to give Henry some space, but Henry just settled closer. Pike's heart drummed in his chest, and he wiped his palms on his jeans to dry them. He tried holding his breath, but that just made him feel like he was about to faint. He gulped back air, hoping he was breathing quietly.

"I love it here, I really do," Henry said softly, looking across him out at the trees whipping by. "But I can't stay here. I just can't."

Pike wondered what he'd do if Henry let his head rest on his shoulder. Not that Henry ever would. But if he did, then the long shock of hair that fell over his eyes would probably brush Pike's cheek, and it'd probably be more comfortable if Pike put his arm around him.

Not that he ever would.

When the bus rattled to a stop at the Harts' place, Henry still looked distant, and almost sad, as he heaved himself out of the seat and banged down the aisle to the door. "See you tomorrow, Henry," Mr. Twogood said, and Pike watched out his window while Henry ran down, down, down the path and out onto the dock, dropping his schoolbag, and throwing himself into the lake with a delighted whoop loud enough to send a flock of starlings winging into the sky.

* * *

_Bird Stewart_

Pike stood in front of the mirror hung inside his wardrobe door. He'd turned out big, like his father. He was six feet, and he might get a few inches more before he stopped growing, and his shoulders were big. But his stomach was a little soft and there was a shadow of acne under his cheekbones.

He imagined Henry looking at him, the way he must have in order to make that drawing. It was small, but carefully done. Henry must have been looking. Did Pike always frown like that when he was reading, and brush his bottom lip with the back of his thumb? Henry's eyes were gentle and soft, and when he looked at someone he was really _seeing_ them, and sometimes he got that smile that hooked up just the edges of his mouth.

Scowling, Pike slammed the wardrobe shut and pulled on his t-shirt. Henry's eyes could get sharp, too, and appreciative, when he was looking at something he wanted to draw, and his fingertips started twitching even if he wasn't holding a pencil. Pike scooped his books into his bag and headed out, stomping outside without a jacket even though there was frost rime on the gravel in front of the store.

September slipped in around the edges of August. The mornings and twilights were slowly turning chilly, enough for Pike to see his breath in great white clouds, but it was still scorching hot and dry in the afternoons. The leaves were starting to turn, mixing sun-yellow in with the faded green of the poplars, and all of them sighing and shushing as the wind snuck though. The larches were a golden blaze across the higher reaches of the mountains, and snow covered the steep slopes down to the treeline.

The school bus did the elementary run first in the mornings, and Pike waited for the clamour of kids to tumble off the bus, already shrieking and running for the swing sets. Pike nodded good morning to Mr. Twogood and climbed on.

Bird got on at the next stop and sat across from him. "Hey, morning."

"Hey." Pike shut his book and turned sideways in his seat.

Bird nodded, or else his head was jogging up and down to the jounce of the bus's rusty shocks. "Football tryouts start today, did you hear?"

There really wasn't much of a way that Pike could have avoided hearing, what with Dean already slated to start at quarterback. Henry and Dean talked about it non-stop, and Henry sometimes dragged Dean over to sit close enough to Pike at lunch that he got his ears filled with football talk. Probably Bird heard it the rest of the time, since he mostly sat with Dean's crowd.

Over the summer, Henry had started inviting Pike to things, parties and camp-outs and days just spent lying on the wooden decking of the Harts' dock, enough that Pike couldn't make up excuses for all of them. Enough that he didn't want to. Sometimes there was a pile of guys from school, and Pike could stay on the edges of the crowd, but more often it trickled down to the four of them: Henry and Dean, Pike and Bird. They'd gotten to know each other a bit, while Henry and Dean talked in half-sentences and laughed at each other for no reason. Whenever Pike started away, saying he had to go, Bird just followed him, and he didn't seem to care too much if Pike walked off nowhere in particular. He'd shy stones at squirrels to start them chattering, and scuff his shoes through the old orange-brown needles and dead leaves of the trails around the lake. Bird didn't talk much more than him. It was relaxing. Pike didn't mind answering when Bird asked a question, since it was so rare, and then he found he didn't much mind talking with him at all.

"I think I might try out," Pike said, before they got to the next stop and there was anyone else around who might hear.

" _You're_ going out for football?" Bird asked, raising his eyebrows. Somehow it made the mustache he was trying to grow look even more ridiculous.

"Probably good for nothing except tackling drills," Pike muttered. Dean had actual talent. If they won any games, it was probably going to be because of him, not because Pike threw himself at the lineman opposite him and pushed for five seconds until the play was whistled dead. And if Dean was on the field, it wasn't like Henry was going to be looking at him, and seeing...whatever it was that Henry saw.

"Man, if you are, I think I will, too," Bird said. "Dean's a pain, but I've been catching for him for about forever."

Pike looked up. "Why?"

"'Cause if I didn't, he'd just bean me with footballs," Bird said. "What are cousins for? Weren't you at the Fourth of July picnic?"

Pike shrugged a bit. He'd watched the fireworks from the hill above the town, bright sizzling cracks of colour floating down, seeming close enough to touch before they hissed out to gunpowder and smoke.

Bird didn't let the silence stop him. "Yeah, well, he was trying to bounce touchdown passes off my head for most of it. I've been catching in self-defense all my life."

"All right, then," Pike said.

Bird laughed. "We're going to get our asses kicked."

"Yeah," Pike said, and smiled out his window.

By the time school let out, it was sweltering outside. Pike headed for the change room past the deserted classrooms. The halls were dim with the fluorescents off, but the sun shone through the frosted glass in the double doors, leaving glowing pools on the linoleum and reflecting in glints against the rows of lockers, so bright that everything else was left as silhouettes and echoes.

Pike stopped when he saw them.

Henry was standing in the hallway, leaning back against the row of lockers, his hands tucked in his back pockets. He tipped his head back, and bent one leg at the knee, his foot pressed against the wall. Dean stood across from him, wearing jeans and an undershirt, last week's sunburn turning to a reddish tan across his shoulders and starting to peel. He laughed as he tossed some books into his locker, and Henry was smiling softly at him like he couldn't remember ever seeing anything better. Dean slammed his locker shut, the clang ringing through the halls, and slapped Henry on the shoulder. Henry leaned into the touch, until Dean's arm was around them, and they headed towards the locker room like that, in half a hug, with Henry's hand almost on Dean's waist.

Pike turned and went back the way he came. He waited out the tryouts lying in the long grass at the edge of the field, hidden by the bleachers. Sundazzle swam red and pulsing through his closed eyes, and spots followed his blinks when he opened his eyes in the shade. All the football jocks were yelling and grunting from the far end of the field, and Henry would be somewhere nearby, watching. Pike clenched his hands into fists and pressed them into the soft dirt. It had been a mistake to think about going out for football in the first place, a mistake to want to be seen.

Bird found him afterwards. He'd thrown his sports bag over one shoulder and it tipped him to one side as he walked. "I have never been this sore in my _life_ ," he said. "Remind me to kill you at some point, huh?"

"Thought Dean was driving you home," Pike said, following Bird to the bus.

"Like he wants to take me in his shiny new truck," Bird said. "He's giving Henry a ride."

The bus ride home was quiet. Bird looked half-asleep, his elbows propped up like crows' wings on the seatbacks to either side of him, his fingers laced together over his chest. Bird's equipment bag smelled of sun and old sweat and grass stains.

Pike watched the road and the back of Mr. Twogood's cowboy hat. Before the tryouts, the coach had said he'd wanted to try Pike at tackle. He knew what that meant. As long as he was on the offensive line, he'd be just one more in a clump of guys all sweating their skin off to make sure Dean looked good. He waited for Bird's stop so that he wouldn't have to talk about why he'd changed his mind. But Bird stayed on, right to the store, and followed him across the parking lot.

"Well, how'd it go?" Mr. Soams asked from his bench along the front wall of the store.

Bird sat down in the Adirondack chair across from Mr. Wheeler, stretching his legs out under the table, groaning comfortably, like sitting on the store porch was something he was born to. "No good," he said. "They've probably got ten guys better than me at wide receiver."

Mr. Soams nodded. "Sorry to hear that, Bird. And Pike?"

Bird shook his head. "Nah. Pike's got all of you to look out for, who's he going to get to watch you if he's at practice every day?"

"Well, certainly not you," Mr. Soams said, and the others laughed along with him.

Bird grinned. "Exactly," he said. "I guess it'll just be easier if I stay here."

* * *

_Leon Cassidy_

Pike knew something was going on the instant he stepped into the store. A minute ago the place had been busy with whispers and Mr. Soams urging everyone to "Just hush up!"

The moment the bell jingled above the door when Pike walked in, the whole place went quiet. Pike knocked the snow off his boots and shrugged his bag down from his shoulder, narrowing his eyes at the men carefully lounging around the stove. They glanced back and forth, all but holding their breaths.

Mr. Soams cleared his throat and slapped his thighs, getting to his feet and heading for the coffee maker. "Is Lloyd coming in?"

Pike nodded, stripping off his jacket and hanging it over the pile already on the coat tree. Seemed like everybody was here. It was a wonder he wasn't charging rent, or at least getting his firewood chopped out of the bargain.

"Not until he has that bus babied up in the garage," Mr. Wheeler said. "He can't just plug in the block heater like a normal person. He's probably reading it a bed time story."

Mr. Soams chuckled as he started a new pot of coffee perking. "You want some, Pike?" he asked, holding up a mug.

"Thanks," Pike said. The back of his neck prickled with suspicion. Mr. Soams couldn't quite hide his grin before he'd turned back to the coffee pot, and everyone else was carefully avoiding meeting his eye. Mr. Fulbright and Bird were sitting on the couch. Bird was grinning like he was fit to burst, tapping out a rhythm on the table in front of him. Mr. Fulbright was carefully bending over his paper, but Pike didn't miss the gleam in his eye from under the brim of his hunter's cap. Mr. Wheeler had his back to Pike, but his shoulders were shaking as if he couldn't quite get a hold of his laughter, and Mr. Livingston's coughing fit into his handkerchief sounded a lot like a chuckle. By now, Mr. Twogood had come in the front door, and he seemed just as pleased with himself as the others.

There was a high-pitched yelp from his apartment, followed by a low, pleading whine. Pike glared at every single one of them, all of them falling over themselves swallowing back their snorts of laughter.

"Well, Pike?" Mr. Soams said, wandering over to hand him his mug of coffee. Pike didn't take it. Mr. Soams' eyes were dancing and his face was red with merriment. By his smile, he clearly thought he was too clever by half. "Aren't you the least bit curious what we got you for your birthday?"

Pike walked across the store deliberately, still scowling, and opened the door that led back to his apartment.

The puppy practically bowled itself over, galloping out to jump up on his knee, dropping down to sniff his boots, its tail wagging ecstatically. It yelped again, dancing at his feet, then skittering off across the floor to investigate every other corner, all at once. Mr. Soams set down his coffee and scooped it up, and it immediately wriggled around in his arms to lick his face.

"Leon Cassidy's bitch whelped about two and a half months ago," Mr. Soams said. "Whoa, there, girl. Here," he added, shoving fifteen pounds of squirming, eager puppy into Pike's arms.

Pike laughed, getting a hold of her ruff and supporting her rear end with one hand. She already had a thick, dark winter coat, and blue eyes, and she immediately shoved her wet nose into his neck, slobbering down his front.

"She sure likes you," Mr. Soams said. Everyone else gathered around, all of them slapping each other on the back for the surprise. Mr. Cassidy stepped out of his hiding spot just behind the doorway of Pike's apartment, grinning through his thick beard.

Pike kept trying to get a better hold on the pup, while she did her best to lick his face off. She smelled of wet fur and milk breath, and Pike pushed her muzzle away, but he hadn't really stopped smiling since the first instant she had shot out that door into his legs.

"She's half German Shepherd, from Missy, and half Fulbright's Malamute," Mr. Cassidy said. "At least, that's what we figure, by the other pups' markings. Managed to find homes for the rest, but--"

"I told him we needed a bit of life around here," Mr. Soams said. "She'll do well with you, Pike."

"She's weaned and had her shots," Mr. Cassidy said. "Haven't had her fixed yet, so that'll be up to you. Other than that, she's ready to go."

"Happy birthday, Pike," Bird said. "What are you going to call her?"

Pike shook his head, crouching to let the puppy down to the floor. She scrambled away instantly, going from person to person and yelping her puppy bark at each of them. "I--I don't know." He'd had names in mind for years, but never had the chance to use them.

"He's only just gotten her," Mr. Wheeler said, knuckling the pup behind her still-floppy ears. "No need to rush him."

"No," Pike said. "I think...Gladys."

"There you go," Mr. Soams said, laughing when Gladys rolled on her back at Pike's feet, her paws waving in the air, twisting back and forth and yipping.

Pike grinned and rubbed Gladys' tummy with splayed fingers, rolling her back and forth as he petted her. "Thank you," he said, looking up around him. "Thank you all."

* * *

_Dick Livingston_

Early summer rain swept in over the mountains in billowing banks of fog, water gathering on the branch tips and then dripping into rivulets that bubbled down to the lake, leaving the shore drenched in muck and squelching moss. Everything outside the store windows looked misty and distant, the grey light fading into night. Pike watched the windows while he cleaned, but he still almost missed Henry, scuffing across the parking lot from his grandpa's truck and pushing in the door.

He had his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, and his hair was damp and spiked from the rain. Pike swallowed and let his broom fall against the counter.

"Hey," Henry said.

Pike nodded back, hating how even after all this time he was always so stupidly tongue-tied.

"I came to say, um, goodbye, I guess," Henry said. "I'm moving at the end of the week." He smiled suddenly, wide and brilliant. "I've got a job in New York for the summer, before I start school." He bounced on his toes, once, as if he couldn't hold in his joy for even a second. "I know, um, I know you're not going anywhere, so. I mean. I wanted to come by."

Pike tried to smile back, but he felt like he'd been turned to stone. Ever since school had gone back in, Henry hadn't tried to get him to come to things, not like he had last summer. Next week he would be gone, for a year at least, and probably longer. Why would he come back at all, if he didn't have to?

Gladys took that moment to burst out of the apartment, before Pike had to say anything.

"Hey, girl," Henry said, kneeling and holding out his hand to let Gladys get the scent of him, and then wrapping his arms around her when she butted up against him. "She's your dog?"

"Yeah. She--for my birthday."

"Happy birthday," Henry said, looking up. He sounded as happy as if he'd missed it last week, instead of months ago. Gladys leaped up on him again and he turned back to her. "Who's a good girl, huh? Who's a good dog?"

Pike started back for the counter, but as soon as he stepped back, Henry stood up and followed him.

"So, I, um, came to invite you to the grad party." Henry smiled hopefully. His eyes were so warm, and he was really seeing Pike, like he wanted to draw every part of him. His spirit.

Pike cleared his throat. "You're--"

Henry leaned forward, warm and fond, and standing closer to Pike than he ever had before. "Inviting you, yeah."

"I--" There was nothing around the store to save him. For once, the place was deserted. And Henry wanted _him_...

"Dean's got a whole bunch of guys coming," Henry added, "so I figured--"

"Sorry," Pike said. He moved away quickly, getting the counter behind them, wishing there was more to hide behind than the register. "I can't."

Henry's eyes widened, and he backed off. After a minute, he said, "You sure? They've got, like, five kegs. It's going to be pretty wild." He tried smiling again. "And wet, but I don't think they care about that."

Pike nodded, but he didn't look up from the counter in front of him, his heart in his throat.

"All right," Henry said, softly, his voice inviting Pike to tell him what he really meant.

Pike waited, until Henry gave a small sigh and walked away. The bell over the door seemed to ring louder than an alarm clock. And then he was gone.

Letting his breath out slowly, Pike looked up over the counter. Gladys followed him with her eyes, whining low in her throat. Pike stumbled over to the couch and let himself fall back. Gladys scrambled up beside him, her feet slamming into his chest and thighs, and licked his jaw.

Pike hugged her tight, until she settled on his lap, nuzzling his hip. The store was quiet, and it was past locking-up time, but he didn't want to move. When the bell jingled again, Pike looked up long enough to see Mr. Livingston heading for the coffee machine.

"Was that Henry Hart I saw running out of here?" Mr. Livingston asked.

Pike clenched his jaw. "Yes," he got out.

"Hm," Mr. Livingston said, and left it at that. "Well, if you're feeling up to it, come on out for some starwatching. It's a beautiful night out." He took a drink from his mug, and Pike turned his back. "All right then. When you like," he said, and headed out again, closing the door softly behind him.

Pike closed his eyes. He didn't want to think. He didn't want to sit here alone, as if he was still waiting.

"Come on, Gladys," Pike said, roughing her scruff while her tail pounded the floor. He stood up, held the door open, and let her go bounding out ahead of him. He turned off the store sign and let the door slam shut as he walked around to the lake trail.

Bird shifted the cherry-bright coals with the charred tip of an alder branch. The smoke rose up, carrying sparks like tiny fireflies, mixing with the steam from mugs of coffee heated with brandy. Mr. Fulbright and Mr. Wheeler were whittling, their hands moving slowly and the firelight winking off their knives. The rest sat quietly, their faces warm and thoughtful in the flickering glow. From outside the ring of camp chairs and old stumps, their backs looked like hunched shadows, limned in gold and red. Every once in a while someone would drop a word of conversation in, and the others would nod along as if they'd talked everything out so long ago there was nothing left to do but agree.

Gladys trotted up to the fire and turned three times before laying down with a woofing sigh just under Mr. Soams' dangling hand. He dropped his fingers to pet her and massaged her head from the backs of her ears down to her shoulders.

Pike stood for a moment longer in the darkness beyond the fire, letting the night air brush past his cheeks. There were so many stars that the whole world felt filled with them, and he watched until he saw a single streak of light trace down the sky.

"You joining us, Pike?" Mr. Soams said, looking back over his shoulder, smiling his invitation.

"Yeah," Pike said, and moved across to fill the last empty seat in the circle.

* * *

 


End file.
